truck at the railway station, when a big log slipped on the skids and
his leg was smashed badly. They carried him to the Carriers' Arms,
which was the nearest hotel, and into a bedroom behind the bar, and
sent for the doctor. The Giraffe was in evidence as usual.

"It vas not that at all," said German Charlie, when they asked him
if he was in much pain. "It vas not that at all. I don't cares a
damn for der bain; but dis is der tird year--und I vas going home dis
year--after der gontract--und der gontract yoost commence!"`

That was the burden of his song all through, between his groans.
There were a good few chaps sitting quietly about the bar and veranda
when the doctor arrived. The Giraffe was sitting at the end of the
counter, on which he had laid his hat while he wiped his face, neck,
and forehead with a big speckled "sweatrag." It was a very hot day.

The doctor, a good-hearted young Australian, was heard saying
something. Then German Charlie, in a voice that rung with pain:

"Make that leg right, doctor--quick! Dis is der tird pluddy
year--und I must go home!"

The doctor asked him if he was in great pain. "Neffer mind der
pluddy bain, doctor! Neffer mind der pluddy bain! Dot vas nossing.
Make dat leg well quick, doctor. Dis vas der last gontract, and I vas
going home dis year." Then the words jerked out of him by physical
agony: "Der girl vas vaiting dree year, und--by Got! I must go
home."

The publican--Watty Braithwaite, known as "Watty Broadweight," or,